


Lean in

by Builder



Series: Pantherverse [6]
Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Fever, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 10:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14850782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: T'Challa can't hang during a UN council meeting.  But at least he doesn't have to suffer alone.





	Lean in

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt from tumblr. Find me @builder051

T’Challa wants to lay his cheek on the conference table in front of him.  He longs for the coolness of the polished wood against his over-warm skin, but he knows it won’t endear him to the rest of the group.  Especially since he’s been briefed to avoid even putting his elbows on the table. 

 

T’Challa rubs at the throb between his eyes and steals a glance at Nat, sitting tall in the chair beside his.  She’s paying rapt attention to the speaker at the head of the table.  T’Challa should follow her lead, but the rising discomfort in his stomach is making it difficult to do anything.  It’s a miracle for them to even attend this meeting of the UN Security council, let alone as distinguished guests.  When he’d received the invitation, T’Challa had half expected to be dragged in wearing handcuffs. 

 

He may as well be in handcuffs, though, with the amount of restraint he currently has to exercise.  Just swallowing without triggering his gag reflex is a feat.  Warm nausea rises in his chest, and T’Challa lets out a slow breath, praying no one is watching him too closely. 

 

The prayer’s unanswered, though.  Nat’s foot finds his under the table, and T’Challa’s too afraid to turn his head to establish eye contact.  If he moves a muscle, he’s going to be sick.  He tries to communicate the message with a measured inhale.  An acidic taste splashes up at the back of T’Challa’s throat, and it’s all he can do to keep from clapping his hand over his mouth. 

 

Nat raises her eyebrows in his peripheral vision.  T’Challa swallows hard again, but it’s no use.  Nothing goes down, and a foreboding gurgle rises from his stomach.  His face feels hot while the rest of his body goes icy.  He only has moments left if he’s going to escape. 

 

Better to leave than face the humiliation.  T’Challa jumps to his feet.  “Please, pardon me a moment,” he whispers frantically before dashing into the hall.  It’s cooler in the corridor than in the conference room, but it’s not enough to stop clammy sweat from running down his temples.  There’s a sign for a restroom a few doors down, and T’Challa takes off in that direction, setting his jaw against the urge to heave. 

 

He stops at the sink and runs the cold water.  If he can just cool his face, maybe he’ll be alright.  Maybe the nausea will pass along with the burning ache in his bones.  T’Challa grips the edges of the basin and draws in a tremulous breath.  Saliva pools under his tongue, thick and sour and overly warm.  He spits it down the drain, hoping he’ll feel better if he doesn’t have to swallow it.  But it just ends up making him gag, and T’Challa swallows frantically to keep from vomiting into the sink.

 

“What happened?  Are you ok?”  The voice is distorted and echoy in the tiled bathroom, but T’Challa recognizes it.  Nat stops an inch from his shoulder.  “You look sick.”

 

T’Challa shakily turns off the tap.  He’s only wasting water.  “I feel—”  His throat contracts, and he looses a queasy belch.  “I’m…sorry.”

 

“If you’ve got it that bad,” Nat says shaking her head.  “Just let it out.”

 

“I just…I’ll be fine,” T’Challa tries to protest, wiping his brow with his wrist.  Another burp rises in his throat, and he has less confidence this one will be empty. 

 

“T’Challa…”  Nat puts her arm around his shoulders.  “Come on.  Just get over the toilet.”

 

T’Challa lets himself be guided, but he doesn’t let his guard down.  “What am I missing?” He chokes out.  “In the meeting?”

 

“We broke for lunch,” Nat says simply.  “But I’m guessing you don’t want any of that.”

 

“No.”  The word catches in his throat, and he gags emptily. 

 

“Just relax.”  Nat pushes T’Challa down to his knees, then pats him on the back.  “I can leave, if that would make it easier.”

 

T’Challa’s about to ask her to, for her own sake, but he belches again, and everything comes up in a rush.  He can barely bow his head quickly enough, and he still splashes the toilet seat. 

 

“There you go,” Nat says.  She sounds almost relieved.  T’Challa’s heartbeat throbs almost as loudly.  He gasps for breath for a second, then ducks his face below the rim of the toilet as he throws up again. 

 

Something cold and wet comes in contact with the back of his neck, and T’Challa flinches. 

 

“Chill out,” Nat murmurs.  “It’s just a paper towel.”

 

As the shock wears off, T’Challa has to admit it feels wonderful.  The warm, insistent nausea drops down a notch, and after he coughs out a dry heave, T’Challa sits back on his heels and cups his forehead in his hands.  “Thank you,” he whispers hoarsely.

 

“It’s no problem,” Nat says. 

 

T’Challa doesn’t say anything to that, but the slump in his shoulders says he doesn’t quite believe her. 

 

“I’m serious.”  Nat flips the towel so it’s cool-side down. 

 

T’Challa shivers and lets out an involuntary groan of relief.

 

“See?  It’s ok.  You don’t have to be so stoic all the time.”

 

She has a point.  T’Challa doesn’t really want to hear it, though.  He spits to clear his mouth, then croaks, “What about the council?  I…haven’t spoken yet.”

 

“They can rearrange the agenda,” Nat says simply.  “If you go back to the hotel and rest, you’ll probably feel better.”

 

“Hm.”  T’Challa wants to say that he’d hate to inconvenience the United Nations over something as ridiculous as a stomach bug, but all he can manage is a hastily stifled gag.

 

“Will you stop holding it in?  No wonder you feel like shit.”  Nat almost laughs.  “And you’re burning up too.  Hurry up and finish puking so I can offer you meds.”

 

T’Challa tries and fails to swallow, so he rides out the heave.  He spits up a mouthful of bile that makes his eyes water with its bitterness. 

 

“There.  That’s got to feel a little better now.”

 

“I…” T’Challa starts.  “Yes.  It does.”  He takes a slow, deep breath.  “Thank you.”

 

“Like I said,” Nat says, offering a sideways smile, “It’s no problem.”


End file.
